Meltdown
by GM
Summary: Dire cCircumstances drive Napoleon to the breaking point


****

**M e l t d o w n**

by

_gm___

**rated** -- PG-14 -- violence and intensity** ** March 1971 

A scene snatched from one of his worst nightmares.  All too frequently, this spectre haunted him.  Sometimes, in the harsh and solid reality of Life, the dreaded vision came true.  

No mistaking this was real.  The thin line of sweat trickling down the side of his neck, down to his collar, coursing a hot line on his cool skin attested to a visceral connection to veracity.  The icy temperature of the room; his body, his hot, short breaths counterpoint to his no longer cool and remote nerves.

Intellectually, Napoleon Solo knew he should look away.  The detachment could only come if he pretended this wasn't happening.  Not as a point of courage, but as a necessity of what he felt and feared inside did he keep his eyes fixed on the huddled, dark-clad figure leaning over a large industrial sink.  

The blond hair was matted and flat, pressed to Illya Kuryakin's skull from cold water dripping off the Russian agent. The black turtleneck sweater/shirt ripped and bloodied was soppy and clinging to the thin figure, accentuating his slight form.  There would be no miraculous rescue due to clever gadgets.  Searched, brutally and thoroughly, neither agent had any cunning devices left.  No communicators, no weapons.  Only their wits and fortitude would save them now.

Solo held his breath as his partner gasped for air; Illya's lungs begging for a respite from the erratic fight for air and the stress of being robbed of vital oxygen.  Every few moments the sadistic guards would raise the agent from the sink – giving him almost enough time to fill his lungs, then they plunged him again into the ice water, shocking his system and keeping his lungs starved.  

As much as he wanted to, Solo could not give in.  He would, if possible, but he could not.  Giving away the information would not only be a betrayal of his mission and code, it would get them killed anyway.  This evil captor would make them suffer no matter what.  No sense in ruining a courier's day, too.  If the games escalated any more, though, he would have to do something -- stall, lie, maybe even give in.  Better to save Illya's life and foil a mission -- even better to let someone else die -- than lose Kuryakin to this kind of macabre senselessness.

Again, the blond head was brought out of the water.  Sanchez, an over-weight, nut-brown man with a drooping mustache and evil eyes glared at him with an amused expression.  He enjoyed the brutality too much.  If, for no other reason, Napoleon wanted to stop the torment to spoil this man's brutal games  There was, however, a more important incentive to make the maniacal torturer stop.  This was destroying Illya a gasp at a time.  Much more and the Russian would die.

Inwardly flinching, holding his own breath until Kuryakin gulped in some air, Solo was outwardly aloof.  They had endured torture in turns: first they were chilled – put on ice literally – when stored in a holding vault at this little ice company in southern Colorado.  Then they were brought out to the main packing area of the plant for the advanced degrees of pain.  

According to superior rank, Solo was first to undergo torture when fingers were broken in several places; ribs viciously kicked until several of those were broken. Then Illya was dunked in ice water provided from the never-ending supply of freezing liquid.

"I know we are running out of time, Mr. Solo.  The courier from Cuba will be in your country soon.  I must be there to meet him.  Let us stop playing the entertaining games.  I have so little time left."

To accentuate the threat, Sanchez pulled an ice pick from one of the wood beams.  It was a long, thin stiletto of a blade.  Desiring to save both of them from more excruciating agony, Napoleon wanted to give in, but could not.  When Sanchez approached, then stopped mid-way between the agents, he dishearteningly realized the thug might have just found his limit.  Depending on which direction the ice pick turned.

It was his rotation for torture, and though the prospects were decidedly unpleasant, he could handle more damage.  His fingers were already numb – past the throbbing pain – now swollen and something he could ignore as long as he didn't move his hand.  So far, the afflictions had been low-grade and amateurish. Hasty and clumsy, albeit smarting.  Painful, yes.  Life-threatening – not yet.  He was afraid that was about to change.

The ice pick pointed toward Kuryakin and Napoleon's nerves plunged to sub-zero.  This was where things got tricky.  Both of them could handle the small stuff.  If Sanchez was going to do something to permanently maim his partner he would have to put a stop to it.

For the hundredth time he tested the ropes binding his wrists and ankles. No hope of getting free.  As Sanchez and the ice pick approached the Russian, Illya struggled with his bonds, frustrated they were fast and secure.  

Re-evaluation was clicking through Solo's mind: how important was the courier mission?  If he gave away a little could he save Illya from serious harm, or even death?  Would he?

Studiously avoiding glancing his way, Kuryakin set his jaw; stubborn, defiant, stoically bracing to endure more injury.  Even though this was an all-too-frequent part of the job, no one liked agony.  They were paid to endure this – expected to grit their teeth and live past personal unpleasantness and keep the world safe.  That credo never made these sessions easy.  

As the ice pick zeroed in on Illya's face, Napoleon weighed the abstract questions; duty and devotion to ideals, expectations as the Chief Enforcement Officer of UNCLE NY.  His mission – keeping Cuban spy network details safe until they could get to New York.  

Were any of those abstracts more important than Illya's unscarred face?  Or his nose?  His eyesight?  His brain?

The possibilities of the ice pick and Illya's future were rapidly narrowing to a decreasing point of no return.  When the tip of the pointed steel slid up the jaw line, leaving a red, dripping incision, and reached the top of the pale cheek, Solo had enough.

"Stop."

"No!"  

The rebellious counter-order from the Russian was ignored.  Sanchez kept the ice pick pressed on Illya's face.  Blood streamed from the small, but ever-deepening wound.

"Mr. Solo, I will ask this only once.  An incorrect answer will result in Mr. Kuryakin losing his left eye."

Angry, Illya muttered another negative through clenched teeth.

"A spy with one eye, or no eyes, is a liability, don't you think?"  The ice pick moved laterally, across the cheek, drawing a red line to the outer edge of the left eye.  "Once the weapon is in the eye, perhaps I will just push it through to the brain."  Sanchez laughed.  "That would be too quick, I fear.  Better to pop out the eye and allow Mr. Kuryakin to bleed to death while you decide what to tell me, Mr. Solo."

The steel tip edged closer, touching the eyelashes.

"Stop!"

Sanchez stared at him, silently waiting, still pressing the blade against the face.

"Let Kuryakin go and I'll tell you."

"No!" Illya shouted, flinching as the movement increased the pain.

Sanchez smiled; cold, mirthless, evil.  "Releasing Mr. Kuryakin alive would prove dangerous, I think."

"If you're going to kill us then the deal is off," Solo flatly commanded, his voice as hard as his expression.  "What good would it do to give you the information if we die anyway?  You have to deal."

Sanchez snorted in derision and incredulity.  "Deal?  You are the ones bound and helpless!" he shouted, momentarily, swinging his weapon toward Solo.  Then he menacingly placed it back against Illya's face.

The psychological score fuelled Napoleon's flagging confidence.  His opponent was losing a little bit of emotional ground.  That could be used in their favor.  In time to save his partner?  That remained to be seen.

In a cool and calculated tone, he reasoned, "You release Kuryakin.  I'll take you to the meet.  The courier won't come to anyone but us.  Visual sighting.  He doesn't see one of us there's no deal.  He goes to another plan.  And we don't know what that backup contingency is.  So you want the courier, you release Kuryakin and keep both of us alive."

Sanchez removed the blade with a nasty swipe, cutting a gash along the side of Illya's face.  Except for a sharp intake of breath, the Russian did not react to the sting.  He was glaring daggers at his partner while fighting against the bonds.

Hastily he tried to sabotage the deal.  "The courier will reveal himself only to the two of us," Illya countered quickly.  "You can not release me.  But you must keep us alive."

Crossing the room, Sanchez placed the ice pick's tip at Solo's throat and pressed until blood tricked down his neck.  "One or both of you are lying.  Or perhaps, neither. I must decide if you are lying out of desperation to save your own life," he pressed the blade harder, "or each other.  A subtle difference, but an important one."

Solo ignored his partner.  He stared at the slimy villain who had trapped them.  Who tried to instill refined culture into the course and crudely accented voice that demanded he choose between his friend and his mission.  There was no civility here, not even a veneer of refinement.  This was the rotten underside of their seamy business.  Far removed from the pristine, cold-steel walls and immaculate hallways of UNCLE.  Far from the international jet-set life of country hopping in private jets and sharing cocktails with the famous and beautiful.

This was the critical crisis he dreaded; where training and ideals dissolved under the more real, tangible ethics of blood, pain and death.  His superior might ask what was Illya's eye, or even his life compared to keeping the world in balance for another day, or another decade?  

Mr. Waverly, ensconced in his isolated tower of steel and concrete – far away in the air-conditioned aerie of HQ -- perceived missions differently than field agents.  He would consider the mission of the utmost importance:  Meeting and protecting a courier who held plans that could foil another Cuban missile crisis. Safeguard a man who will keep world aggressors at bay so normal, everyday people would be protected from the threat of another world war.  Complete the duty he was expected to, trained to accomplish.  Not give in to the weakness of sentimentality or pain or the thin belief that somehow there would always be another chance to save the world.  

There might never be another chance to save his partner. If possible, he would try and get them both out of this and still preserve the mission.  If not, his choice had already been made about what should be spared.

"Just to be on the safe side," he spoke quietly, trying not to move much, feeling the sting from the increased pressure of the ice pick, "then you should take both of us.  Once we're in the car, we'll direct you which direction to go."

Sanchez whipped the tip across his throat and almost in the same movement slashed his hand back to slug Solo on the face.  The blow jarred his damaged ribs and he bit back a hiss of pain.

"Captured UNCLE agents do not dictate terms to me!"  He brought his fist back to strike him again, reverberating pain through his injured body.  "Your meddling organization of gentlemen spies has interfered enough with my country!  You are the bought dogs of capitalists!"  Again, he struck the agent a numbing blow.

Hissing through unfeeling lips, Solo drew in a rough, tight breath, feeling more blood trickle down his nose and chin.  This was proving to be an agonizing encounter.  The little wounds were mounting, the slight injuries adding to the overall weakening and destruction of the body and mind.  At least they were still alive.  As long as there was that, there was hope.

Spinning around, Sanchez stabbed the ice pick toward Illya.  "I think I would trust the Russian more.  I can appeal to him on a level you would never understand, American!"

"I will not cooperate with you," Kuryakin snarled defiantly.  "Unless you free us both."

The Cuban whipped back, abruptly plunging the ice pick hilt deep into Solo's shoulder.  He cried out, then bit his lip to keep from any more voluble reaction to the throbbing ache.

"Mr. Kuryakin, you will make the meet for us.  If you follow through with the assignment, you will live."

Struggling, Illya fought against the ropes, glaring with a mixture of anger and sympathetic distress at Solo.  "You need both of us!" he insisted hotly.  "I won't help if you kill him."

Taking a bucket, Sanchez dipped it into the sink and threw the icy water on Solo.  "We will leave Mr. Solo here.  Alive."  He ordered his two men to release the senior agent.  In Spanish, he issued commands.  

From the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw Illya's face react – eyes going wide and filled with dread.  "No!"

"Alive, but incapacitated," Sanchez finished ominously.

Shivering, Napoleon put up little resistance as he was dragged away, his feet still bound.  Every jolt and step was an echo of agony through his ribcage and chest.  Afraid what might be next, he was surprised when they took him outside.  He would have guessed the deep freeze in the plant.  This wasn't much better, he decided, when they hit the freezing temperature of the Colorado winter night.  

Without a word, he was pushed down a slope, tumbling in the snow, plunging into shallow water.  The shock of the freezing river drove all other injuries from his mind.  Floundering, he struggled to get air and scramble to shore.  Hands free, but trembling so badly he could hardly function, he worked on untying his feet with numb and shaking hands.

Unbelievably cold, he crawled up a snow bank, tremulous, panting, hardly caring anymore about anything beyond the thought of a warm blanket.  There was, though, one consideration still haunting him.  He looked up, seeing Sanchez and Kuryakin watching him.  

What would be the next act in the vicious little play of life and death?  He was about played out.  Illya might have to take the ball from here. It was unfair to leave the mission in his partner's hands.  So much depended on him pulling off a miracle.  Illya would be mad at him -- Napoleon had been the one to give in – to make it more difficult to complete their duty. 

Saving the world or saving the partner.  A dilemma they faced constantly.  A test he had failed many times.  He wondered why he was still an agent.  Because when presented with the choice, he always went with Illya. Almost always, he still managed to save the mission – mostly.  That was what spared him from being fired. He wondered what he could do now.  The situation seemed pretty bleak.  How was he going to magically salvage this operation?

Inching his way up the hill, he was shivering so much his teeth hurt from the chatter.  Illya was arguing with Sanchez.  Their voices blurred in his ears.  Blackness closed in on his vision. He could not go on.  Dropping his face in the snow, he was out before he could feel his raw skin touch the frozen ground. 

***

Subconscious reckoning -- the ability to tell where he was on an automatic instinctive level before waking or opening his eyes.  Handy after drugs or injury or when waking up in a new or strange place: hotel rooms that were always different, cells, dungeons, etc. .  

He had done this so many times before.  What he assessed now was the cold.  He still felt so cold.  Something warm at his back and touching his arm lent counterpoint heat and security.  Before opening his eyes, he knew who it was -- subtle breathing, or simply the familiar aura he knew so well -- Illya.  The rest of the senses were relaying other tidbits: they were in a cold truck.  Bumpy ride.  For now, they were both still alive.

"You're awake."

"Mmmm," he sighed.

A covering was tucked up over his shoulder.  "Are you all right?"

"Cold."

"I know.  At least they gave us our coats back.  They are dry."  Illya rubbed the arm carefully.  "I tried to stop the bleeding, but your shoulder wound is deep."

Nodding, Solo felt it every time he moved to the van jolted.  The throbbing in his left hand told him his fingers were still a problem.  His ribs ached terribly.  Sore, but survivable injuries.

Strangely, they were not bound.  Probably just tossed in the van and locked up.  A nice advantage.  Their captors must think they were beyond resistance and they were close to being right.

Pressing against him, Illya was trying to share the warmth.   Deeming it acceptable to open his eyes, Napoleon blinked and looked around.  Dark interior showed him little except they were in a cargo van.  Presumably, their captors were riding up front in heated comfort.  He didn't see any one guarding them.

"What's the situation?"  He shifted slightly to look at his friend.  Every move was painful and he made the minor transition slowly.  "Is it okay to talk?"

"Yes."

Awaking new pains, he made the complete turn to look his partner in the eye.  "How's the face?" he flinched.  Looking at the terrible cuts, he felt the guilt weigh heavily on him, like a mass pressing against his chest.  The cuts had stopped bleeding.   Superficial then, thankfully.  "I should have stopped it sooner."

"No.  You shouldn't have stopped at all.  I am expendable."

Solo tried not to lose his temper.  "No.  We've had this conversation before.  You're not expendable."  He shifted away from the argument to determine how they could salvage the game.  "And buying time got us this far alive, didn't it?

Illya grunted in reluctant agreement.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"We're on our way to Boulder."

"Boulder?"

"We are meeting the courier."

"Not Vegas."  Smirking, the American winked.  "You see, you're doing your own misdirection.  Nice bluff.  Too bad we'll miss the action at the blackjack table, though."

"I think there will be enough gambling for even your blood once we reach our destination."

So, there it was.  Illya had convinced Sanchez to keep them alive as far as Boulder.  Somewhere along the route, they would make a break for it and either escape or take out the Cubans.  Either way, it should prove interesting since they were not in good form and their enemies were armed and wary.  

"How many in the party?"

"Three against two."

Nodding, Solo reevaluated.  It would have to depend on luck.  A lot of it.  Still, three to two was good odds.  In their favor, Kuryakin whispered, the Cubans thought they were in worse shape than they were.  Not wanting to discourage his partner, Solo didn't tell him how weak and hurt he felt.  It didn't matter.  They had to get through this – no choice.  

"Thanks."

"For?"

"Saving me.  When I lost consciousness, I thought that was it.  That they would push me into the river and that would be the end."

Illya's eyes darkened and his voice was flint.  "We will discuss this later."

Glumly, Solo settled back to snuggle into the coat.  He was still freezing.  And he knew what was troubling his friend.  "Don't be mad.  I saved your eyesight if not your life."

"And nearly died redirecting his attention from me to you."  The Russian's voice scraped with emotion.  "Don't ever do that again."

"Can't make that promise, tovarich, you know that."

Kuryakin's head rested on his and the sigh of irritation breathed warm in his ear.  "I know.  But at least try not to get yourself killed when we escape."

"I'll do my best."

The van stopped and both agents tensed. The back doors opened to wash the van with pale light.  Early morning.  Groaning a great deal, Illya indicated his friend was still unconscious.  Two of the men dragged Solo out by his feet.  Sanchez held a gun on Illya and ordered him out. 

Crawling, the Russian sidled out.  As Solo's body reached the edge of the van, Napoleon kicked out, landing both feet into the thug's stomachs.  Illya lashed out with his feet, connecting with Sanchez's face.  The UNCLE men scrambled for the weapons.  

Solo grabbed a pistol and turned and fired in one clumsy, but quick movement, killing one guard.  The other man reached a weapon when he shot again, killing the second man.  When he turned, Sanchez was holding a pistol on Illya.

"Again we are at odds, Mr. Solo.  You are a dangerously clever man."  The Cuban spy stood close behind Illya, leaving almost no target area.  "Drop your weapon."

Solo couldn't comply.  It would mean both their deaths.  They had endured horrible torture at Sanchez's hands and he would kill Illya with a flinch of the finger.  Was Napoleon in good enough shape, though, to make the shot?  He was shaking, his vision blurred with trickling blood, sweat and pain.  If his aim was off by a fractional measurement he would shoot his partner in the head.  If he gave in there would be torture and pain and death.  Did he really have a choice?

Sighing in defeat, he sagged.  "All right," he cried.

Something in his eyes must have alerted the Russian.  He knew Solo would not surrender.  It would mean their deaths if he did.  Just as he was about to pull the trigger, Illya jolted, Sanchez's pistol discharging.  Illya dropped to the ground, blood splashing everywhere.   

Solo fired three shots into Sanchez's head, emptying the rest of the pistol into his chest as he ran over.  Collapsing to his knees, he crawled to his friend, crying out in anguish.  Kuryakin was dotted with blood, but still breathing. Solo covered the neck wound with his hand.

"Illya!"

Kuryakin's eyes opened and took a moment to focus.  Amazed, he just shook his head, speechless at the close call.  Solo folded over, exhausted and shaken beyond the ability to do anything, hugging his friend against his chest, abstractly aware his face was wet with tears.__

Moments of critical time passed without the ability to move or act.  Finally, it dawned on him Kuryakin was still bleeding profusely.  Solo held onto him, blood streaming through his fingers. He grabbed ripped pieces of his own torn shirt and pressed them onto the wound.  Muttering angry remonstrations and pleas for Illya to hold on and not die, he dragged his friend over to the van, pushed him in, and drove toward the center of nearby Boulder. 

***

Solo watched his friend move slowly around the hospital room.  Of course, Kuryakin would release himself from the hospital as soon as possible.  He considered these healing places little more than prisons.  Solo agreed.  Unfortunately, they ended up here all too often.

The white bandage at the neck was mostly covered by the loose collar of the filthy and tattered turtleneck, but still visible.  Illya's face was marked with red stripes – slashes from the ice pick.  Those would heal, probably without scars, but the lacerations would remain for a while as reminders of the near miss.  Vivid recollection that he waited too long in implementing a bluff, a ploy, a distraction – anything to minimize the damage.

"Anxious to leave?"

Kuryakin turned cautiously.  He only assessed his friend with a glance.  "As you are."  He took in Solo's slinged arm and cast left hand with a frown.  

"More than ready."

Trudging sluggishly through the corridors of the 24 hour emergency clinic outside Boulder, the agents knew they looked every bit as worn and damaged as they felt.  Solo had offered the weak excuse of a traffic accident as the explanation.  The ER doctors didn't believe it and the local authorities were called.  Suspicious policemen didn't readily accept that they were agents for UNCLE, either, but a call to New York settled that issue.

Waiting for their cab in the early morning cold, Illya looked out at the mountains on the horizon.  "What are our orders?"

Illya was distant.  Knowing, in this mood, the Russian would be closed off to conversation, Solo went along with the superficial update.  Eventually, his partner would thaw and they could talk.  Not a dialogue he wanted.  Illya was not happy and he guessed it was over the horrible choice he had been forced to make.

"Recuperation, thankfully.  Cooper was on duty for Section One.  He's sympathetic. Said we could rest here for a few days before flying back."

"The courier?"

"There was a back up plan, of course, that Waverly didn't mention."

"Of course."

"The courier was met in Vegas this morning.  The world is again safe."

The taxi arrived and precluded comment on his sarcasm.  They went to a hotel where UNCLE had arranged for a room.  When they checked in, they found a package from the UNCLE office in Denver – new IDs and weapons -- and, to Solo's delight, new clothes in the correct sizes.  At times like these, he appreciated the efficient network of his organization.  Almost anywhere in the world UNCLE could bring civilization to it's agents in need.

Once in the room, Kuryakin picked one of the beds and promptly fell asleep.  Solo wondered if the nurses had slipped the Russian a painkiller.  Illya was almost instantly snoring.

Solo preferred to clean up first.  After a clumsy shower he crawled into bed as the sun was poking around the edges of the curtains.  

Sleep was not immediate.  For a long time he lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying events with Sanchez.  Wondering how he could have done it differently.  And how he could assure that such agonizing dilemmas would never be faced again.  There was no guarantee for the future.  No promises of safety for anyone in their business.   Finally, he slipped into a light, dreamless doze.

***

Waking to the smell of food, Solo's stomach gurgled, reminding it had been a long time since his last meal.   He sat up, blinking back the grey light filtering in from the window.  All cleaned up, casually dressed, Illya sat at a small table munching food.  From the open neck of the polo shirt he could still see the bandage on the neck.  In the dim light, he clearly distinguished the painful-looking cuts on the face.  

"I ordered for you," Kuryakin supplied, bringing over a covered plate.  "Club sandwich and fries.  Easy to eat with one hand."  He removed the cover.  "When in doubt –" 

"Yes, I know," he smiled.  "Order a club sandwich, they're always safe.  Good thinking."

"First, caffeine and sugar," Illya insisted, handing his partner a bottle of Coka-cola.

Taking a long drink, he noted by the empties on the table Illya was on his third bottle of coke.  Solo started munching on the fries, finding the quartered pieces of thick sandwich to be a little challenging with one hand.  If he balanced the end of the sandwich with his cast, however, it worked all right.  

Illya looked like he was in a better mood.  His appetite was certainly an indication of improved health – he was on his second plate of what looked like fries and a fat burrito.  

"Trying the local specialties?"

"Their Mexican food is passable."  He placed the two-handed burrito on the plate and studied his friend.  "I am still unhappy with the way you handled Sanchez," he matter-of-factly reported, not wasting any time with chit-chat.  "I concede, however, I could not think of another option at the spur of the moment."  Taking a long drink from his coke, he held eye contact for a long moment.  "You were fortunate he didn't just shoot you instead of insulting you."

Not really thinking about it before, Solo wondered the same thing.  "Just lucky, I guess."

Snorting, Kuryakin clearly disliked that explanation.  "You depend far too much on luck, my friend."

"It's gotten us this far, hasn't it?"

"Has it?" Illya's rhetorical retort had a sting to it.  "I think, rather, foolish heroics are what keeps us battered but living."  The expression stern, the blue eyes stringent, his voice was uncompromising.  "You must not take such risks."

Being chastised for saving his friend's life was common.  Illya frequently disagreed with his methods.  He, however, did not argue with success.

"I have no choice," Napoleon admitted, surprising himself at the confession that echoed finality.  "You know I'm not going to let you be permanently injured, or die, because of duty to UNCLE.  Missions succeed and fail every day.  I can't replace you."

Philosophically, Illya shook his head, but his eyes, even in the subdued light, bespoke exasperation.  "Decidedly against policy."

"Yes."

"One day Waverly will figure this out.  He will end our partnership if it overtly obstructs business."

"Probably.  Until then, we play the game the best we can with the cards we're dealt."

Dipping a fry in hot sauce, Illya shook his head.  "As it has been observed, you play a dangerous game, my friend."

"I know."  

And it was getting more dangerous all the time, he admitted to himself.  Occasionally, he wondered if he had any limits anymore aside from the partnership.  The safety of his friend was now his priority; not UNCLE, not saving the world.  He balanced on a precarious ledge of duty to his oath and duty to his friend.  Dispassionately, he knew the boundaries were with the job, not with Illya.  Saving his friend – there he knew no limits.

**_April  1971_****__**

"I can work better alone.  You shouldn't be here at all.  You should be back in New York recuperating."

Napoleon shrugged his shoulder holster over the black sweater and tried to make it look easier and less painful than it was.  The masquerade didn't fool his friend and he glanced away from Illya's disapproving scowl.

"I'm fine."  

He glimpsed back as Kuryakin pulled a black turtleneck sweater over his head and moved to the table to recheck various weaponry.  The shirt mostly covered the thin red line along the Russian's neck; the not-quite-healed scar on the fair skin – a lingering reminder from their last assignment-gone-wrong.

Noting the look, Illya continued brusquely.  "Your shoulder and hand are not completely healed."  

Decisively, defying the advice, Solo donned his shoulder holster, wrist holster and small handgun; select knives in different sheaths strapped to his arms and legs.  Finally, he attached a small belt pack for explosives around his waist.  

Kuryakin tried again.  "Your are of no use on this mission."

"Thanks."

The stern glare, the harshness of the tone did not dissipate the cruel honesty.  "And I do not need you babysitting me.  This is a simple extraction, Napoleon.  I will be in and out before dawn."

"Then there's no reason why I can't provide back up."  Solo pocketed sundry explosive devices and another pistol.  

"You are not entering the compound with me."

Knowing the arguments were justified, he pushed past the ego that was bruised along with his body.  Once more, his eyes strayed to the nearly covered scar on Kuryakin's neck.

The tenacious reply was as stubborn as Illya's.  "I'm not letting you go in alone."

It was one of the most ridiculous stand-offs in their career.  Pushed to the limit on the last assignment, Solo could not release his over-protective instincts concerning Illya's safety.  He had nearly lost him last month.  A half-inch over and Sanchez would have killed him with the shot in the neck.  The surgeons had barely sewn up the vein before the Russian bled to death.  It took him weeks to regain his strength.  

Waverly had deemed him fit for this important, but simple mission -- find a missing scientist.  Solo had strongly objected, losing the debate.  If he couldn't prevent his friend from being assigned field ops, then he would go along as back-up.  

Napoleon had barely been able to save him last month.  He could not allow his partner to go face this new danger without someone to watch out for him.  However shaky he was, he was better than nothing.  His sheer determination to see them out of this alive could make the difference between life and death.

As an excuse, he rationalized this was not his fault anyway.  Circumstances forced his hand.  As usual, the "easy" mission had gone wrong, and the clear-cut assignment turned complicated and dangerous.  So, it was good he had tagged along.  Illya, however, didn't see it that way.  The carefree excursion to Australia was now a perilous job against ruthless opponents.

Kuryakin's eyes softened first, followed by his expression.  "I don't want you hurt."  His face was gravely serious.  "I don't trust your misplaced heroics."

"Look who's talking."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Your stunt in Colorado."

"I was giving you a clear shot."

"And got shot instead."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"I don't need any more favors like that!  When I rescue you, let me do my job!"

It was a sore point with him.  Illya had nearly died trying to help -- more than just distracting the enemy to turn the tables on Sanchez.  It had been an act to save him.  He couldn't stand the thought that Illya putting himself in the line of fire for his sake.

"Stay here," Illya warned again, unconditionally.

"Okay," Napoleon sighed, knowing he had pushed his friend as far as he should.  "I won't follow you into the compound.  But I'll be up on the hill in case you need me."  He placed a hand on Illya's shoulder.  "And if you do you better call," he admonished sternly.

It was a hard thing when left behind.  When his partner was assigned to an extremely dangerous mission.  Kuryakin was right, he shouldn't be doing anything but desk work.  Sitting back in New York, however, was not an option.  This started out as a fairly simple case of finding a scientist who had gone missing during a family vacation.  Napoleon had come along for the ride.  Accompanying Illya to Australia's Queensland territory had sounded like more fun than sitting around the office in New York.  The little trip was supposed to be an easy half-holiday.  Find the scientist and go home.  Enjoy a little southern hemisphere sun and time away from the big city while they completed the task.  

Then they realized the disappearance was really a kidnapping of the scientist and her family, and more.  The search for Dr. Lender had turned into the discovery of a THRUSH base in Australia, where the scientist and her family were held captive.  Presumably, she was working under coercion to supply THRUSH with a new, potent chemical that was a new variation on the black plague.  The catch being they had the germs as well as the only antidote.  

Who knew this would turn into a commando mission?  The Australian UNCLE unit was short handed to begin with, and couldn't marshal enough agents to be of any use until the following morning.  By then THRUSH would have taken the scientist and fled.  They were already tipped that UNCLE was closing in.  They would be waiting for an assault.  That was why Solo was not letting his partner go in alone.  They were here and would make the best of it despite their ragged conditions.

"I don't want you coming in after me for any reason, Napoleon," Illya warned severely, his eyes narrowed with intensity.  "I will have enough to worry about without you wandering into mischief."

"I can take care of myself."

For a moment, the blue eyes stared into his and there was a perfect understand of what they were both thinking.  Back to the last mission.  When the operation had dissolved.  Luck and a little skill had saved them, but not before torture and near death were leveled at both of them.

In the intervening month, he thought some of the Russian's silent, studious looks indicated  brooding over the near fatal mission.  The Australian case seemed like a holiday in comparison.  So, when things turned nasty, Illya rallied to protect him, just as he sought to keep his friend safe.

"See that you do," was Illya's curt order.

Solo gave a mock salute, accompanied by a smirk.  "Yes, sir."

Relaxing, Illya almost grinned.  "As usual, things have not turned out as expected."

"As usual," Napoleon agreed wryly.  "That's why I'm here.  Part of the partnership agreement, you know."

"Hmph," Illya growled.  "I just want you to watch yourself.  No foolhardy heroics."

The American crossed his heart. "Promise."

With a skeptical glower, the Russian grabbed a backpack and shouldered into it.  Muttering incomprehensible phrases, he preceded his partner out of their hotel room.  Napoleon had every intention of keeping true to his declaration, but wouldn't be surprised if circumstances forced him to break the oath.  He was, after all, here to protect his partner.

***

Ten minutes after the appointed rendezvous time, Solo stared through binoculars at the THRUSH stronghold far below.  Nestled in a lust tropical ravine, the factory was fronted by the ocean, and hemmed in by steep, forested cliffs on the other three sides.  Illya had repelled down behind the buildings some time ago.  No sign of him yet.  

On the horizon, the sea was obscured by dark clouds moving in a storm front.  Time was running out.  Solo grimaced, not liking the idea of scrambling down the cliffs, but if his partner didn't show in another minute that was what he was going to do.  He focused the field glasses to some men outside the main building, anxiously hoping to spot his friend.

***

_The vision of the Cuban holding a pistol to Illya's head drifted into his mind.  _

_"Drop your weapon."_

_No, he couldn't do it.  _

_If he was off by a fractional measurement he would shoot his partner in the head.  If he gave in there would torture and pain and death.  _

_Illya slumped.  Napoleon fired.  _

_The gangster's finger spasmed, loosing a shot.  Blood splashing red everywhere._

_ Illya folded.  _

***

Solo shook off the recurring memory that plagued him.  He would not allow Illya to come so close to death again.  How could he possibly prevent it?  Not in this business.  He would just have to do his best to keep his partner safe.  It had turned into an obsession -- this need to safeguard Illya.  Without analyzing details, he knew it was because he needed his friend.  Needed that companionship and trust and friendship in his life as much as he needed air to breathe. 

Shouts and calls from several guards at the building nearest the water put Solo on alert.  Several armed men moved from the main housing near him, toward the smaller office-type rooms by the ocean.  It sounded like Illya had been discovered.  

Gritting his teeth, Napoleon hooked up the equipment, donned gloves and started a slow, agonizing descent to the ravine.  The prelude to the storm swept in, the windy conditions buffeting him against the rock.  Every movement, every jolt down was pure hot pain to shoulder and hand.  Several times he slipped and jolted, slamming against the rocky cliff, intensifying his injuries, fading his vision to grey as he fought to overcome the ache.  Determined to see it through, he reached the ground with a jolt, kneeling there several minutes to catch his breath.

Gunfire echoed through the trees and he unhooked his belts and stumbled toward the factory.  Keeping to the edge of the cliff or the tree line, he struggled all the way to the side of the main offices.  What he saw there chilled his blood and his existing pain was transcended by a gut-wrenching agony that shivered from his emotions to the physical reactions of tightened chest and twisted stomach.

A battered and unconscious Illya was being dragged across the main open area between buildings.  An overweight man in a white linen suit gave orders and yelled at the guards.  When they reached a loading dock, they threw a battered Kuryakin on a platform and bound his hands.  Attaching a hook to his bonds, they dragged him up to hang above the dock like a piece of meat in a butchers shop.  

Not close enough to do any good, Solo hurried as fast as he could, clutching his aching ribs, racing to get close to his partner.  He couldn't' take on the dozen or so enemies on his own, but he had to do something quick.  Illya's predicament did not look healthy.

Three armed men emerged from the dock building with a woman, a man and a little boy.  He recognized them as the scientist and her family.  The man in white slapped Kuryakin and discussed something, gesturing toward the woman.  Illya shook his head.  He was punched in the face.  When he shook his head again the man, enraged, took a pistol from one of the guards and slashed it across Illya's face.

That was enough of that, Napoleon decided.  As he maneuvered to a closer position, he assessed the various guards, deciding on a plan of action even as he moved.  The man in white took a knife from one of the guards and slit a gash in Illya's arm, blood down his sleeve.

Napoleon temporarily lost sight of the drama as he came up behind the building and to the side.  By the time he was close and in position, he groaned, seeing Illya slashed several more times.  Then the agent was raised higher up, far above the dock.  If they released him from the hook, he would likely die from the fall.

Pistols in both hands, he leaped from his concealed position firing.  He drilled every guard he aimed at, unevenly running toward the dock.  His plan was a clumsy improvisation, but it worked until he stumbled up the steps to the winch.  

"Hold it!" he ordered everyone.

By then the man in white, who was unarmed, hid behind Dr. Lender, holding a knife to her throat.  One man was still at the controls of the winch.  He could drop Illya at any minute.

"You can stop right there.  I assume you are an UNCLE agent, too.  You're late. But still plenty of time to join your friend.  I have the prize.  And if you don't allow me to leave I will slit her throat."

Behind him, he could hear running feet.  More guards.

"Drop your weapon."

It would mean their deaths if he did.  Raggedly breathing, shaking from pain, he knew he could not comply.  Just as he could not agree to a surrender in Colorado.  The man in white nodded to the guard behind, and the winch-man's hand moved to a lever.  Solo fired, blasting him away from the machinery.  

Then Napoleon spun and fired, hitting the man in the head.  The THRUSH agent stumbled back, the knife slicing across her neck, the scientist screaming.  Both the THUSH man and his victim fell back into the water.

"Get into that boat," he shouted at the remaining family.

The man and child screaming in the background of his senses, Napoleon raced over to the dock winch and reeled his partner to the planks.  Bullets pinged around him and he turned and fired, emptying one pistol, still pushing the lever to bring Kuryakin down.  The Russian hit the dock with a thud.  Dodging behind the machinery, Solo returned fire as he crouched, scrambling over and loosing Illya's bound hands.

The boat suddenly exploded, throwing everyone to the ground, raining fire and debris all around them.  Shocked, Solo watched the shards splash into the ocean and onto him and his partner.  The guards were also knocked off their feet.  Illya recovered first, grabbing a fallen rifle with one arm, and spray bullets at everything that moved.  Grabbing a stunned Napoleon, he rushed down to the end of the dock to a second boat.

Jumping in, he tossed the rifle to Solo while he started the engine.  Sinking to the deck, automatically Napoleon shot back, clumsily covering their retreat.  The injuries were noticeably painful, but worse, they were inhibiting, handicapping his abilities.

When they were out of range, he dropped the rifle and watched Illya handle the boat with only his right arm, his left arm hanging limply at his side.  Illya's clothes were torn and gashed from the shrapnel of the boat and his face cut, presumably when captured.

Holding his shoulder, Solo edged forward until he could see his partner's profile.  Illya's face was a mask of cold neutrality.  Leaning his head back, closing his eyes, Napoleon tried to shut out the images of the blood and death.

Racing around the point, Illya pulled the boat into a secluded cove at the first opportunity.  He refused to look at Solo, but his voice was heavy with regret.  

"We have to go back.  We didn't finish."

Solo shook his head.  "I can't," he whispered shakily.

"I'll go –"

Grabbing onto his arm, Napoleon dragged him down to crouch on the deck beside him.  "No.  I won't let you go back."

Fear in the blue eyes startled him, but he understood it.  The shaking hands and the trembling, hoarse voice told so much of his tattered nerves.  The reflection of his fear and what he had become was evident in Kuryakin's reaction to him – a response to the partner who had flipped out and gone over the edge.

"I know you don't understand."  Napoleon's voice as shaky as his hand.  "I can't do this anymore.  I can't put you at risk.  This is the limit. They died because of me.  A woman and her husband and her child are dead because of my choice on the dock –"

"Napoleon –"

"I killed them.  And I feel nothing for them."

Illya touched his shoulder, hand trembling.

Solo droned on, no life in his voice or in his heart.  "I don't give a damn about the mission or the cause or how many innocent lives are at stake."  

Hot tears streamed down his face.  Inside and out he was trembly and cold.  He really had lost it.  Napoleon Solo had cracked.  Had broken.  And it was his partner who managed it.  Not torture, not foreign danger.  Fear for his partner had shattered his nerve.  

"I can't do it anymore."

Expecting anything from hot anger, to hatred, to a slug in the face, Napoleon was taken aback when Illya, eyes closed, pulled him close, drawing his head against his chest and holding him there, shaking, wiping his face dry.

After a long time, Kuryakin's reasonable voice stated, "We have to go back and destroy their research.  It can't be left for others to take."

Solo shook his head, leaning on the firm support.  He was empty inside except for the hurt.  The throbbing pain of nearly losing Illya.  That was all he could feel now.  The world, the mission, the lives of others – even his – meant nothing.

"Napoleon --"

"I won't let you go back."

Sighing, Kuryakin held him close, tightly holding on -- probably as scared and desperate as he felt.  The contact lent strength and calm he could not find within.  It became his anchor and he felt, for this timeless pause in the world, they were safe.

The sun baked down on them.  The waves lapped against the boat.  This moment in time seemed to stop and to stream on without meaning.  After a while, Kuryakin shifted and told him his shoulder wound was bleeding.  Probably opened up in the fight.  Knowing he was damaged inside – probably re-breaking the ribs – he looked at Illya's left arm.

"You're bleeding.  Let me fix that."

About to protest, Illya looked into his eyes and gave a nod.  There were first aid supplies on board and he patched the wound the best he could.  Illya did the same to his shoulder and taped his ribs.

Once finished, the Russian sat beside him on the deck.  "I have to go back."

"No."

Running fingers through his hair, Illya sighed with frustration.  "This can't go on, Napoleon.  It is our job to take risks.  You can't protect me forever."

"I can for now."

"And just walk away?  Drop the mission?  Do you know what Waverly will say?"

"He'll fire me.  And maybe you.  I don't care."  His tone was adamant and cold, the passion gone now, washed away with a frightening, cold resolve.  "At least then the danger will be over."

Illya strained to be reasonable, but it was clear he was confused and off-balance by this extreme breakdown.  Solo, on the other hand, felt lucid and clear – accepting a new cause with his whole heart.  Secure and unafraid for the first time in years.  It was all so simple suddenly.  

"We're going to work through this, Napoleon.  As soon as we get back to New York, we will take vacation time.  We'll get away and get through it together.  But for now, I have to finish what we started."

Without waiting for affirmation, he stood and turned to the wheel.  

"I have to finish what I started," Napoleon countered with solid assurance.  He stood and delivered a karate chop to Illya's neck.  The Russian folded.  He caught the body and laid him on the deck.  "Sorry, Illya. This has to be finished, friend, you're right.  It just has to be done the only way I can allow it." Then he started the boat and headed back to the complex.

Sacrifice -- dispassionate sacrifice -- cold -- calculated -- in control -- based on passionate devotion for someone.  This act was no sacrifice at all, since the alternative was not a price he was willing to pay.

***

Cool wet splashes on his face awoke him.  As soon as his eyes opened, Illya instantly recalled the argument with his partner and the underhanded sucker strike that had knocked him out.  He had never felt so angry in his entire life!  

The awaited storm had arrived, washing him and the boat with large drops of warm rain. The boat was docked near the factory.  Making sure he was armed, he dashed off the boat, confused it was tied to the dock.  He wasn't sure what he expected, but not this.  

Walther in hand, he raced through the grounds.  Not sure what to might find, he saw buildings ablaze.  Explosions were popping in the main factory and other locations, numerous dead bodies littered the muddy yard.

Anger quickly transformed to growing dread as he raced through the compound.  It seemed an army had passed through, but he was sure it was only one agent gone berserk.  

The all too familiar body of his partner was at the far end of the open yard.  Through the rain, he cast a wary eye for enemies while he raced to his friend.  Napoleon was alive.  Red blood washed thin from rain streaked down his face from a gash in the head.  Quickly assessing that there seemed to be no other obvious injuries, he clumsily hefted his friend over his shoulder and trudged back to the boat.

_***_

Under the dripping palm tree, waiting out the storm, Illya silently watched his friend's motionless body lying on the sand next to him, wondering how their careers had come to this end.  There had been no specific day or time or even mission when he had realized his partner meant everything to him.  It had been a gradual insinuation – like his acclimation to hot dogs and American cars.  Without conscious thought, he had come to depend on this man as a partner.  Then as a friend.

The stormy waves lapping on the nearby rocks reminded him of his first island experience with UNCLE.  As far back as survival school, he and the other novices had been warned about the dangers of emotional attachment on the job.  They had learned the double-edged danger of partners – warning that for unwary agents, partnership could evolve to over dependence.  Loyalty was expected, of course, but never to be placed before the organization or the mission.  Too much reliance on a teammate could make you sloppy, lax and dead.

Hardly paying attention to those long-ago warnings, he never envisioned a time he would need such counsel.  The lone Russian was far too aloof and removed from colleagues to worry about feelings for other agents.  He was above the weakness of letting his guard down.

He would have done just fine, if one pushy and gregarious American had left him alone.  If Solo had been content to have a superficial relationship.  But, no, Napoleon thought partners should go to ball games, double-dates and holidays together.  He bought Christmas presents and engineered birthday dinners and insisted on trusting Kuryakin. 

Illya could have remained immune to the affection or the camaraderie, or even the comfortable warmth of belonging in an alien realm.  It was the trust -- the absolute, total, unshakable trust that Solo placed in him constantly and unsolicited that melted him.  That someone would have unwavering and unshakable faith in him to do anything, cracked his reserves.  Napoleon literally placed his life in his hands on a nearly daily basis.  That kind of devotion crumbled all his pre-conceived notions of relationships and Americans and himself.  

Instead of responding instinctively and typically, Illya reacted without thought, accepting the blind faith; absorbing it and reflecting it in full measure.  His own confidence in himself and his partner flourished.  The complete trust quickly evolved to a level that placed him within the secure bonds of friendship without knowing what that meant or fully understanding the concept.  Except that he mirrored his friend's feelings and motivations.  He would do anything to protect and safeguard the only person who had touched him to the very core.

Near the very beginning of the long and twisted road of their careers, Solo also decided he should not leave a partner to be captured, tortured or killed.  So, the daring, ridiculously reckless and imprudent rescues began.  The insane risks to save him had become extreme, frequently bringing down the wrath of Waverly and the censure and/or amazement of their peers.  

Simultaneously, his own evolution of the partnership paralleled Solo's.  The friendship created a new dimension in his life.  A new and strangely wonderful haven where he felt trusted and valued and cared about.  Friendship.  It worked both ways, he was surprised to discover.  

Adversely, there was a dark, anxious side to the equation.  The risks to his friend brought an angle of fear and hurt he had never known before.  When Napoleon was in danger, he went to extreme measures to rescue him.  When Solo was injured, it hurt sometimes worse than his own wounds.  In those bleak times, he had thought Napoleon dead, it had felt like his world was collapsed.  

That brought him to this terrifying moment on a rainy beach.  He had been so focused on keeping Solo safe from the mission he had been blind to his friend's emotions.  So anxious about the danger to Napoleon's life, he closed his thoughts to how much his friend was suffering inside.  Afraid of Napoleon's reactions on the last assignment – offering himself as a substitute to torture or kill instead of him – he forgot the American's single-mindedness and stubborn heroism.  

Solo was unconscious from what looked like a mild concussion.  The ribs were re-broken.  Barring any unseen internal injuries, he should awake any time.  Considering the madness of the solo assault, he got off easy.  The physical injuries were not what worried him.  

As Illya studied his friend, he sensed a new kind of horror screaming inside his own mind.  Not the fear of Napoleon's death.  Not even the dread that he might sacrifice himself for Illya.  The horror that the constant danger and stress had snapped his partner and Napoleon was insane.

Anger over Napoleon's trick had long ago dissipated under the wash of regret and pity.  His proud friend would never forgive him for feeling such commiseration, but he understood the emotions driving the older man.  Shared the desperation and trepidation.

Chilled with dread, he shivered, hugging knees curled against his chest.  Where could they go from here?  They protected each other against torture and capture and pain.  They even applied subterfuge to save each other from Waverly's wrath – save the partnership they had decided they could not or would not live without.  How could he restore his friend's mind and nerve?  

All Section Two field agents thrived on action and hazard.  Personified so perfectly within Solo, field operatives reveled in playing chancy games of life and death and coming out the winner.  Although Illya was basically a reserved and removed intellectual, he would not want to give up the life of excitement and peril in his daily thrills as a spy.  

Spectres that all Section Two agents feared, were of course, painful and slow deaths.  Worse, they feared a life of permanent impairment.  Blindness; crippling wounds.  Being an invalid would be worse than death for some.  In Colorado, that fear had driven Solo to extreme methods.  Insanity certainly qualified in that dreaded Hell of disability.  So, what was Illya to do now?  This new agony was unfathomable.

Concerned at Solo's long period of unconsciousness, he gently touched around the swollen, bleeding knot on the senior agent's forehead.  Perhaps the concussion was worse than he thought.  

"Napoleon," he breathed – a curse, an entreaty, a sigh.  "What am I going to do with you?"

Worst-case scenario – he could not allow his friend to go to some top-secret sanitarium for round-the-bend spies.  The rumored graveyard of washed up agents – Tartarus – might be a real place, not just the stuff of spooky tales from drunk and/or worn operatives.

He would not allow that.  Somehow, he would stop UNCLE from going that far.  How?  To buy time he had called in and reported the mission was a qualified failure.  The secrets were destroyed, along with the scientist and her family.  The news had not gone over well with Waverly, but he was satisfied there was no longer a threat.

Also reporting both he and Napoleon were injured, he had gained a few days for recuperation.  Maybe he would need to call at the end of the week and make up another excuse.  He certainly was not taking his friend back like this.  It would be the end of their partnership and the finish to Solo's career in UNCLE.  Perhaps, he would be taken away to Tartarus and never been seen again.

Alternatives?  Unknown.  All he knew was through his determination, he had to salvage his friend.  What would it mean if he saved Solo's life time and again, only to lose him to madness?

The American groaned and Kuryakin moved to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder.  The gash in the head had been treated.  The reopening of the shoulder wound was patched.  What remained to be seen was the internal damage inside his mind, heart and soul.

"How are you?"

Solo blinked, the brown eyes slowly clearing, then reflecting the thoughts racing through his mind.  Focusing on Illya, his face was set in a grim mask.  

"Hurts."

"That's what happens when you single-handedly take on an enemy base."

Slowly, he nodded his head.  "Well, then, welcome to the Napoleon Solo meltdown."

Illya nodded, chilled that Napoleon's voice was calm, remote and lifeless.  What did that mean?  A prelude to madness, or a return of the friend he knew so well?  Or thought he knew until today. 

"At least I'm not in a straight-jacket yet."

The joke was not amusing, but he found he could not deny that possibility – as much as he wanted to ignore that prospect.  "No, they're not coming to take you away.  Yet."

Slowly, with the Russian's help, Napoleon sat up and leaned on the tree.  "How did you manage to keep me out of a looney house?"

"Told Waverly you were hurt and required some recovery time."

"That was generous of you."  Solo reached out and stopped just short of touching him.  "Sorry about knocking you out."

"I will get my revenge," he replied simply. 

It almost brought a smile at the corner of his lip.  "I'm sure you will."

Talking nonsense.  It helped settle Illya, balance him as his friend always did.  He didn't want to go further, but had to take the step.  The questions and answers hovered between them like a fog, needing to be cleared away.  The doubts and suspicions needed voice.

"We must talk," the Russian reluctantly stated in a quiet voice that he strove to keep level and unemotional.

"I need to apologize for my actions.  I went crazy, I know.  I'm sorry.  Sorry I'm such a coward."

The absurd confession jolted Illya off balance.  The voice was composed and deep, tone serious and sincere.  Having run through the anger at the attack and the subterfuge; the fury at Napoleon endangering himself in his place, the resentment that Solo could no longer deal with their occupational dilemmas, Illya was cool, as well.  So he could deal with the confusion with a level head at least.

"You are many things, Napoleon," he quietly accused with deep emotion.  "Being a coward is not one of them.  You just defeated an entire base."

"I felt no fear," Solo confessed blankly.  "I was just running from what really scared me."

The riotous peril; fighting, death and hurt burned out.  They were left with sober realities and decisions that went beyond anything they had faced at the end of a gun.

"Afraid of losing you.  I was trying to protect you."

Shaken.  Humbled.  What could he say after such an admission?  "I know.  While I take exception to your methods, I cannot condemn you, my friend.  Often I am guilty of the same emotions."

"You've never let stray civilians die for me.  You never went off the deep end."

"The loss was tragic.  You couldn't have prevented the boat explosion.  We might not have been able to save Dr. Lender anyway."

"Possibly.  It doesn't help."

Guilt that his life had been traded for the scientist's was only a vague shadow on his thoughts.  The enormity of Solo's unbalanced actions took up most of this mental energy and all of his emotional depths.  There wasn't room left over for consideration of others right now.

He countered with the only sympathetic balm he could grasp.  "You saved me.  Thank you."

Solo stared at him.  Slowly he nodded.  "That is the only thing that makes all this worth it."  Profound sorrow cracked his expression and his face wrinkled with inner pain.  Burying his head in his hands, he ran fingers through his thick hair.  "I thought I could do anything to keep our partnership intact.  When you were strung up I snapped."  He shook his head, fingers yanking at his thick hair.  "I can't risk your life anymore."

Never seeing Napoleon so vulnerable, Illya cringed inside.  They had been through so much together, but this was a new level of abject agony.  A dark grotto of fear and trepidation they had never visited before.  Often, in stressful times, Illya wanted to reach out and comfort his friend, yet could not bridge that gap -- could not allow his own vulnerabilities expression.  Now, without analyzing or prolonged deliberation, he moved over and held onto his friend as Solo shook in silent anguish.

What could he do now?  How could he save his friend, not from physical danger, but from mental destruction?  The flame-out of his career, and thus, Illya's life as he knew it.  Their valued future gone unless they could solve this.  What could he do?  When he was in danger he could no longer trust his friend to make the right choice.  It had been a long time since he could trust Napoleon to put safety or prudence or even saving the world as a priority over Illya's life.

Shock treatment?  Could he be so heartless?  Maybe it was the only way.  While he would rather sit here indefinitely and physically take care of his friend -- hold on for both of them -- he knew this was not the answer.  Sympathy would mutually comfort them, but mire them in a pit that they may not escape.  Solo needed an emotional jolt and Illya was the only one who could deliver the strike to the heart.

Outwardly, he was calm, his voice soothing.  A deceptive façade.  His tongue, sharper than a blade, was about to stab right through his friend's soul and deliver the most wounding hurt in their history together.  Steeling his heart against the anguish this would cause both of them, he began the ruthless, emotional assassination with a tranquil tone.

"I am sorry it has come to this," he sighed heavily.  "Life will not be the same without you as my partner."

Looking up, Solo's eyes were moist and Illya slammed down absolute control on his sympathies.  To react would be to lose his friend.  That was a risk _HE_ could not allow.  He hated himself, however, for hurting Napoleon so deeply.

"I understand," Solo nodded lethargically.  "You can't trust me anymore."

"NO!  I mean, yes, I do trust you," he blurted out breathlessly, alarmed his partner took the statement wrong.  Resolve wavering, he brushed away the tears on his friend's suffering face.  "I will always trust yuou," he hostnestly confessed.

"You can't after this."

The self-pity jerked him back to merciless, character murder.  He released his hold of his friend, distancing himself physically and emotionally.  "Waverly will dissolve the partnership."  His voice was funereal, his face as grave as his soul.  "I am also worried about your future in Section Two.  He may deem you unfit to remain in the field.  Or UNCLE."  Real emotion cracked through the masquerade and his voice faltered, filling with regret and grief.  Honest remorse flooded his being.  "I never thought I would lose you like this."

Like refitting a piece of broken china, the shattered man before him seemed to glue his tattered nerves together.  He knew of no one else who could be so strong.  Conquering the horrific demons inside and finding the courage to go forward into a perilously frightening future was bravery beyond measure.

"I can't let you down," Solo whispered in a tremble.  "I can't let him split us.  I can't let you down."

"You have never done that in our entire partnership," Illya whispered, teetering on the edge of doubt and hope.  

Desperation briefly surfaced, chased away by determined resolve.  "If I can't pull myself together, Waverly will sack me."

Illya could only nod.

The vulnerable, bruised, scratched face was as bleak as his voice.  "You would have a different partner."

"Yes," he barely breathed.

Solo shook his head, the doubts flooding into the tormented brown eyes.  "How can I do this anymore?  Order you into danger?  Watch you suffer?"

"Because we will go through it together."

For the first time in the conversation, faith replaced the ghosts in the pained expression.  

"Just as we always do.  This is a partnership," Illya reminded forcefully, fondly.

Solo nodded thoughtfully.   "You're the only one I trust.  I used to believe we could do anything together."

"You can always trust me, Napoleon.  And we _CAN_ do anything.  Together.  You are the one who taught me that."

"I couldn't go on without you."

Illya did not want to dissect that desolate comment.  Beyond this moment, this bond between them, he couldn't speculate anymore.  The future was too unstable and frightening.  They had each other.  They had a mutual determination of what was most important in their lives.

"I am the cause of your dilemma.  A miserable conundrum."

Rubbing his forehead, Solo sighed.  "Thinking about it that way gives me a headache."  When he gazed at his friend for a long moment, the confusion and pain gradually lifted, wry speculation lighting his strong features.  "How am I going to pass the next test in the field?  The next mission?"

"Knowing that between us, somehow, we will get through whatever horrors we face."  His voice turned dryly cocky.  "As usual.  Together."

"You have a lot of faith, partner."

"I learned from the best."

Solo nodded.  Under his breath, Kuryakin released a long, shaky sigh.  Napoleon was back.  They could move forward together.  As long as he could count on that he knew they would succeed.

THE END 


End file.
